


The Bodyguard

by frnkieroo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Bodyguard Derek Hale, M/M, Mild Smut, Nogitsune, Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Scott is a Good Friend, Slow Burn, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Stilinski Is Bad at Feelings, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, This sounded better in my head, like im talkin real slow, literal trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-22 17:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnkieroo/pseuds/frnkieroo
Summary: As Beacon Hills becomes a true beacon for the supernatural, Scott and Sheriff Stilinski agree that they can't protect everyone all the time.Even Stiles.There may be a solution, however. One with dark hair and blue eyes and a shitty attitude.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my second tw fic, lets hope this one goes a bit better.  
> show some love w kudos and comments, let me know what you think!

Sheriff Stilinski woke to the sound of his son's blood-curdling scream.

In an instant he burst into his room and ran to his bed, holding Stiles together as if he may fall apart at any second. He was still screaming and thrashing in John's grip, throwing in slurred nonsensical words. Something about letting him out, something else about a door.

After a moment his screams reduced to small sobs. "I've gotta wake up," he kept saying, his throat raw from screaming. "I've gotta wake up."

"You're awake, this is real, Stiles," his father consoled him, hugging him tightly. "The bad things are over. We're safe."

Stiles was still shaking when he loosened himself from his father's embrace. "The bad things are over," he repeated, and the words seemed to sink in. He looked around his room as if to ground himself. The red string covering his walls, the chessboard with the small sticky notes that helped him explain the whole complicated and fucked up situation to his dad. "It's over."

John Stilinski wanted to believe his own words, he really did. He wanted to tell his son this town was safe now, that he could live the rest of his teenage years normally. But he knew that what just ended wasn't the last of it.

He stayed by Stiles' side until he was asleep once again. He pulled the blanket up to his son's shoulders and quietly left the room. As he turned into the hall, he sighed. His son had seen enough. Hell, _he_ had seen enough himself.

But they couldn't just move to a different town. Beacon Hills needed their sheriff, and Stiles was needed by his friends. Tearing him away from the pack was worse than any monster they could face. At least, Stiles convinced him that much.

He tried going back to bed but fell into a restless sleep, staying vigilant, ready to leap out of bed the second another night terror began.

-

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

_Five fingers._

Stiles looked up, glancing quietly around the classroom. Coach was ranting about trickle-down theory, taking a tangent from their original and basic discussion of taxes. He looked over at his friend Scott, who looked just as lost as him. He let his mind wander as Coach continued to complain.

He was tired. Not like a cute sleepy girl with a messy bun and baggy pajamas, no. More like a prisoner of war who's being used as a guinea pig for testing amphetamines. He can't remember the last night where he slept soundly, not after nearly losing his father to the bloodthirsty human-sacrificing druid, Jennifer.

No, now every night was interrupted by nightmares, ones about his father and Scott and his mother. Ones about losing limbs and watching his loved ones perish before him. Ones where he looks in a mirror and he doesn't see himself.

He rubs his eyes, letting the spots of light and shapes and small galaxies float over his eyes. It was comforting, being able to close his eyes and forget for a minute.

But when he removed his hands from his eyes, he wasn't in the classroom anymore. It was dark, and he couldn't make out much of where he was. The air felt cold. He tried to move and cried out in pain, looking down to see both of his legs in restraints, which were bound way too tightly. The skin around the restraints already were turning a blueish hue, as if he had been here for hours.

"Sti-iles."

He froze. The voice was unfamiliar, deep and sinister.

"Stiles Stilinski, I know you can hear me."

"W-where am I?" He asked weakly, betrayed by the wavering in his voice.

"How about you cooperate, and I'll answer your question."

The source of the voice was still nowhere to be seen. Stiles looked around as his eyes adjusted. It looked as if he were in someone's cellar.

"How about you let me go and go fuck yourself?" Stiles spat, feeling an ephemeral burst of courage course through him. He pulled at the restraints, wishing he could break free like his best friend could.

"You can't fool me," it laughed. "You're _weak_. You're weak, and everyone knows. They don't want poor, weak little Stiles getting hurt," the voice taunted. Stiles could hear the sound of nails- no, claws- scratching a deep line down a nearby pipe. "They would do anything to protect you."

The voice came out and revealed itself, a body covered from head to toe in old, rotting bandages. The smell permeating from him induced Stiles' gag reflex.

"In fact," the bandaged thing continued. "They would die for you, Stiles. They would all die, and you would be left to live with it. And isn't that just..." The thing took a deep, growling breath. " _Delicious?_ "

"What do you want from me?" Stiles repressed a stutter.

"I want you to let me in."

Stiles panic rose. What the hell did he mean? He rubbed his eyes frantically. "Go away," he wailed.

"Let me in, Stilinski. Stilinski... Sti-"

"- _linsky!_ "

He came to with a gasp. His hands flew from his eyes and he found himself back in the classroom, legs unrestrained. He took a moment to discover the whole class was staring at him. Including Scott. He swallowed, and his throat felt dry.

"Since you seem to know what we're already talking about, how about you read from the textbook first for us?" Coach pressed.

He hesitantly pulled the textbook out from under the desk, glancing over at someone's book to see what page they're on.

"Do you try not to pay attention in class, Stilinski, or does it just come natural to you?"

A few laughs spread around the class and Stiles' cheeks turned a bright red. "Sorry coach, uh, I'll just-"

"Yeah, just read already. I'm shaking with anticipation."

If coach didn't drop his shit right now, Sheriff Stilinski was soon going to receive a call regarding his son attacking a teacher.

He flipped to the right page and stared at it. Some of the letters seemed to shift into unrecognizable symbols, moving around the page. Others just looked like gibberish. The words almost seemed to be falling right out of the book.

"What're we waiting for, Stilinski? A sound check? Let's go!"

His heart started beating erratically, and his breaths got shallow and choked up.

_Am I dreaming?_

He wasn't getting enough air. He shoved the book away from him and it landed on the linoleum floor with a thud. He stood up, and the room started to spin. He wanted to cry and scream and vomit all at once but he couldn't do anything, feeling his throat get tighter.

"Stiles?" His friends voice echoed around the room.

He couldn't be here any longer or he was going to have a full blown panic attack in class. It was already coming.

Stiles stumbled out of the room, desperate to find somewhere to hide. His breaths were getting shorter and faster, making him even more lightheaded. He put his hands on his knees and crouched over, talking to himself. "Breathe, breathe." He lost his balance and fell on his ass. His vision was starting to cloud.

He felt someone hook their arm around him and lift him up. "Stiles, you need to calm down before you pass out. Can you breathe for me?" Scott's voice was soft and comforting.

"I'm t-try-ing, it h-hurts," Stiles gasped. But he started to feel less and less of the burning in his throat and chest as a black blanket covered his vision.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up in his own bed, drenched in sweat. He was at school, what happened?

The last hour came back to him in fragments. Class, daydream (or, whatever you'd call it), coach, book, hallway.

Scott must have taken him home. How long was he out for?

He got out of bed, heading towards the bathroom when he heard a voice downstairs. Two voices. It wouldn't hurt to eavesdrop, just a little.

-

Scott came downstairs after laying his unconscious friend down in his bed. He had just witnessed what may have been the worst panic attack he's had since his mother died.

The sheriff was sitting on the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. Scott could tell he was overwhelmed. Well, that was probably an understatement. He took a chance by taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch, facing John. He glanced at the TV. There was some cheesy movie on about a ghost. He was pretty sure it was only on to fill the house with sound, so the sheriff wasn't simply alone with his thoughts.

"So," Scott started, unsure of where he was really going with this. He felt the strong need to talk to John, with everything that happened and what was happening to his best friend. "It kind of came out of nowhere, it seemed. One minute, he looks a little tired, nothing new, and the next he's hyperventilating, stumbling out of the classroom and passing out in the hallway."

"He's had panic attacks since his mother passed away," John said, eyes still closed. "This, this whole thing with the druid sacrifices, even though it's over it's got him constantly on edge." He stared at the TV blankly. "I just want him to be safe."

"Once me, Stiles, and Allison all did the sacrifice in the ice bath, Deaton warned us that dark things would follow. Beacon Hills is going to keep attracting danger, and my pack may be big but we can't hold them all down," Scott admitted in defeat. "You know I guard your son with my life. But sometimes, I can't be around, and it terrifies me. There isn't a moment where something isn't happening, and I haven't really got the power to be in more than one place at once."

"I know what you mean. My job keeps me from him for hours at a time, he's left vulnerable for most of the day." He sighed, running a hand over his head. "The feeling that I can't always be the one to protect him, it... it destroys me." The sheriff sounded unusually emotional, which made something in Scott squirm. There was something about seeing an adult cry that makes you realize how bad things really are at the moment.

Scott and John sat in silence for a minute before they heard a creaking sound. Scott whipped his head around to find Stiles standing at the bottom of the stairs.

-

"I know what you mean..."

He heard his father talking and he started down the stairs, making his steps as light as air. A sigh followed. He stopped, leaning in as his father's voice began to quaver.

"The feeling that I can't always be the one to protect him, it... it destroys me."

He felt a pang in his chest. They felt guilty that they couldn't be constantly keeping a watch on him. As if he were made of glass and paper. As if he couldn't use his fists and wit to escape from a situation. As if he were... weak.

_Poor, weak little Stiles._

He clenched his fist, shifting his weight on the stairs, making the old wood creak.

So much for going unnoticed.

Scott was staring at him now, and he felt small under his gaze. He looked down at his feet, unable to meet eyes with either of the men sitting on the couch.

"I uh... I just..." Stiles didn't know how to outright say, _I was listening in on your conversation and you're wrong, I'm not weak, I can protect myself, stop worrying so much about me._

But he knew that his father and his friend were only saying what they were saying because they care about him. By now the silence had become stale in the room, making everyone uncomfortable.

"I should... I should let you two talk," Scott said, getting up from the couch. He walked warily to Stiles, who he noticed was subconsciously gripping the end of the handrail for support.

Scott wouldn't lie, his friend looks like shit.

"Stiles, you know you can call me anytime for anything. One call, and I'll be there. Okay?"

Stiles nodded quietly. The two stood there for a minute, waiting for more words to be said but nothing came out of either of them. Scott pulled him into a tight hug before turning and leaving. Before he shut the front door behind him he looked back, giving his friend a worried glance before shutting the door.

Stiles looked at his father. "Dad, do you think I'm weak?" He stayed at his position on the stairs, not budging.

"No son, you're one of the strongest people I know, why would you think that?" His father was standing now, shutting off the TV and looking out the window. The sun was setting, the one thing that was regular and expected about this town.

"Because I'm human. I... I don't have any abilities... But that doesn't mean I can't fight," Stiles said, his voice rising.

"I never said you couldn't fight, Stiles. And I'm human too, it doesn't mean we can't make a difference. It's just..." John paused. "There are just some things that have come through Beacon Hills with tremendous power, killing mercilessly, wreaking havoc. I can't sleep at night knowing my son is standing in the middle of a storm."

Stiles purses his lips. He didn't know what to say. He was only human, surrounded by constant inhumanity. He looked down at his fingers. Five on each hand.

He involuntarily yawned. He was surprised he hadn't fallen asleep on the stairs by now.

"Get some sleep Stiles, it's a school night."

He didn't even argue, turning and heading back upstairs.

He wonders for a moment if he should have let Scott bite him. Given him abilities. Turned him. The worst that could happen is that the bite could kill him, but that didn't seem as heavy of a downside as it used to.

The best that could happen, however, is heightened everything. Enhanced sense of smell, stronger vision, better hearing, more strength, and stamina. Fucking hell, he'd have fangs and claws and could rip his opponents' throats out with his teeth.

He grabbed his phone, typing out a message to Scott.

**How would you feel about-**

Delete.

**What if I-**

Delete.

**Could you do me a favor and-**

Delete delete delete.

He tossed his phone back on his nightstand, giving up. There just wasn't a casual way to ask your friend to turn you into a werewolf.

Stiles squirmed in his bed, attempting yet failing to get comfortable. He was so overcome with fatigue, though, that after a minute of struggling he shrugged off into unconsciousness.

"My dear kochanie."

Stiles' eyes snapped open at a familiar voice. He looked at the foot of his bed to see a woman standing there, a warm smile on her face.

"Mom?" Stiles kept his voice below a whisper, afraid she would vanish at any sudden noise. His eyes began to water. "You- you-"

"I am well, Stiles. I'm so sorry you had to hurt for so long, but I'm here now and I'm not leaving. I love you so much, kochanie."

Stiles couldn't believe his eyes. This was real, this was her, his mother was _alive_. He reached out to her, scrambling to the end of his bed. He just wanted to hold her hand again.

Before he could do much as touch her, a loud slicing sound reverberated through the air. Stiles fell back on his bed, looking in horror as a long black blade had pierced right through his mother. Blood started to trickle from her mouth.

"Mom!" He shouted, frozen with fear.

She coughed in agony for a moment before looking at Stiles with a smile. Not a warm smile like before, but a bloody, soulless, vacant grin. "Let me in, Stiles."

Right before his eyes, the bandages began to appear on his mother, the thing that _looked_ like his mother. The rotting smell entered the room. He spoke between gags. "Leave... me alone..."

The creature of evil in front of him laughed bitterly. "That's no fun. You know what was fun? Watching you watch your mother die. Again!"

Stiles felt wetness on his cheeks and realized he was crying. He swiped away the tears angrily.

"I'm going to kill everyone you love. And then," the thing smiled, "I'm going to kill you."

He sat up in bed, covering his mouth to muffle the inevitable scream.

The thing was gone, for now. But the feeling of it wasn't.


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time in days, Stiles had avoided waking his father up in the middle of the night with his incessant screaming. And it didn't go unnoticed.

Stiles came downstairs, backpack slung over one shoulder. The smell of bacon and pancakes filled the air and he took a deep breath, taking comfort in it. His father didn't cook much, that was mostly his mother. It's not that John didn't want to, per se, it just he really didn't know how. The man could probably burn water.

But right now he was in front of the stove, focused on not burning the food so much that he didn't notice his son slip in and take a seat at the counter. He turned the heat off, turning around and jumping at the sudden person in the room. "Shit, Stiles, you startled me."

Stiles hadn't even thought of making his presence known. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"You're fine, son," his father returned a tired smile before turning back and transferring the food from the pans to plates. He slid one across the counter in Stiles' direction. "So, how'd you sleep? No nightmares, I hope?"

"Slept like a baby," Stiles lied. He wrapped the pancake around the bacon and ate it with his hands, as he always did. "You?" He asked, mouth filled with food.

His father watched him suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. "Like a baby, huh?" He ignored Stiles' question.

"Mm, I can say it's been the best sleep I've had in weeks," Stiles lied even further, cringing as he listened to how unbelievable his voice was.

Before his father could get out another word he took his dish to the sink, grabbed his backpack, and headed to the door. "Remember your blood pressure meds!" He called out before shutting the front door.

He hopped into his jeep, started the engine and headed to school.

As he was going down the road his thoughts consumed him. The nightmares, the screaming, the panic attacks - it was draining him, physically and emotionally. He wondered how he was going to stay on the Cyclones with the stamina of a newborn deer.

Stiles sighed. It was too quiet, he concluded, looking down for a moment to turn on the radio. He pressed the button but no noise came out.

"Stupid old radio," he muttered. "Why haven't I installed an auxiliary jack?"

He looked up at the road and his blood ran cold. It was suddenly dark outside. He swore it wasn't even 8am yet. He didn't even recognize what road he was on anymore.

He looked out the side window, hoping for a clue on where the hell he was. There were fields on either side of him, stretching on for what seemed like miles. He felt panic rise in his throat. Or was that bile?

Stiles re-shifted his focus back onto the road in time to see a figure standing in the middle of the road.

It was Stiles, staring back at himself.

He swerved off the road and into a tree. For a minute everything went black.

Stiles woke up, struggling for air, sweat beaded on the back of his neck. He wasn't in his car anymore.

He was at school. Sitting dead smack in the middle of an empty gymnasium. He scrambled to his feet, pulling out his phone. 8am sharp.

Another missed call and text from Scott.

 _Scott_  
7:52am  
**Your cars here but you're not. What's going on Stiles**

He held his now aching head confusedly. "How the hell did I get here?" he asked an empty room.

 _Stiles_  
8:01am  
**Felt like ditching. See you in** **second period**

Stiles was glad this was over text so his friend couldn't hear his giveaway stuttering heart. He didn't need anyone worrying a single bit more about him. He was the weak human, he's probably already caused them enough strife.

The rest of the day ensued as normally as it could, with Jackson on his ass about not participating as much in lacrosse practice anymore, how he should take the position of front line seriously.

And he does, he really does. He loves lacrosse more than most people. It became a catharsis for him, a way to take those bad feelings and turn them into action. But lately he hadn't been too invested in the game, and it was starting to show.

Even after the bell rang, Jackson was persistent, following Stiles down the hall.

"You don't even try. You're a useless pawn. When's the last time you scored a goal, huh?" Stiles could hear Jackson's voice right behind him but he refused to look back at him, continuing down the hall to the cafeteria.

"Let me in."

Stiles blood drained from his face. He stopped walking and slowly turned to be only inches from Jackson's red and obviously pissed face.

"W-what did you say?" Stiles couldn't help his involuntary stutter, as he was fucking frightened.

"I said, _listen to me_." Jackson's tone was acidic. He grabbed Stiles by the collar of his shirt and pulled him even closer. "If you don't make an effort soon, I'm getting you kicked off the team."

"How about you leave him alone, Whittemore?"

Jackson and Stiles both turned to see Scott standing a few feet away, hands balled into fists. He probably heard everything.

"Oh, thank _god_ your friend is here, for a second there I thought I was gonna get away with kicking your ass. Looks like you've been saved once again," He spits, slamming his fist into the nearest locker, making Stiles jump before giving him a firm shove and walking away.

Stiles sighed, looking up to see Scott walking towards him. He instantly felt a bout of anger inside of him.

"You didn't have to do that," Stiles said indignantly. "I was handling it just fine, Scott."

"Didn't look like it," Scott muttered, barely audible. "I was only trying to help you-"

"Help me? _Help me?_ " Something inside Stiles yelled at him to stop and calm down, but he pushed it away. "What am I, a goddamn damsel in distress? A helpless baby? Really, what do you think I am, Scott? Tell me!" He was now in Scott's face, pushing his chest.

Scott stared at him before deadpanning. "I think you're an asshole."

Stiles froze. He fucked up, badly. His voice softened. "Shit Scott, I don't know why I-"

"Save it," Scott growled, his eyes flickering red for a second. He walked away without another word, leaving Stiles in the hallway, mouth agape like an idiot.

God, why did he have to ruin _everything?_

He decided that sixth period could go fuck itself and headed outside to his jeep.

Stiles pulled into his driveway and noticed the patrol car sitting there. His dad was home quite early.

When he came in, the smell of Windex and bleach filled his nose. "Stiles?" His father called. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, dad, we were just watching a movie in sixth so I decided to dip out... what're you doing?" He rounded the corner from the entrance to find his dad scrubbing at the kitchen countertops, almost manically. "Uh-"

"Just cleaning up a little. Could you do me a favor and pick up the living room a bit, maybe go over it with the vacuum..."

Stiles nodded quietly. Even though he was simply cleaning, the behavior seemed odd on Stiles' end. He wasn't telling him something.

He picked up the few dirty dishes that were strewn across the coffee table and put the magazines that were scattered in a neat pile. He glanced over at his father, who was now mopping the kitchen floor with a combination of what smelled like 80 percent bleach and 20 percent hot water.

Stiles pulled the vacuum from the closet. "Dad, open a window before that stuff kills you, yeah?"

He started going over the floor, the back and forth motion of the vacuum in his hands was almost therapeutic. Above the noise somehow, he heard a tapping on the glass door leading to the backyard. He looked up, seeing nothing there. But something was drawing him to the glass door. He walked away from the vacuum, leaving it on. Walking slowly to the glass his hands began to shake. Why was he so afraid?

He was inches away from the glass now, staring out and waiting. It wasn't until he laid his palm on the surface of the door that the bandaged face flashed in front of his eyes, making him stumble backward, foot catching on the vacuum cord before falling onto the couch.

He managed to unplug the vacuum with his foot and the room was now silent. His heart was still pounding a mile a minute.

His father walked in, smiling. "Looks good in here, son. Now go on and get showered, and into something more suitable."

"Suitable?" Stiles repeated.

"Yes, Stiles. We're expecting a guest."


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles stood under the scorching hot water, loving the prickling feeling that spread over his skin. He let the water drop through his hair and down his face, closing his eyes and enjoying the small moment of serenity.

He shifted his foot and swore he felt something brush up against it. His eyes flew open and he looked down. The shower floor was buried under a pile of dirty bandages that curled around his feet.

The _smell_.

He gagged, trying to cover his face but he couldn't seem to escape that goddamn stench. It smelt of burned skin and sulfur, and it was absolutely horrendous. He gagged once again, hard enough that his eyes squeezed shut and he had to put a hand up on the shower wall to stabilize himself.

Once he opened his eyes the floor was visible again, a trace of the smell still lingering under his nose.

"Fucking hell," Stiles grumbled, grabbing for the body wash for the second time.

He shut off the water and got out, running the towel through his hair before wrapping it around his waist. For what just happened a moment ago, Stiles mind was oddly on other topics.

Who was this guest? He rubbed away some of the condensation on the mirror so he could see himself. His dark circles made him look like a different person. He ignored it.

Maybe this guest was a new date for dad, Stiles thought hopefully. Maybe it's Melissa! His brain thought joyfully. He and Scott had always-

Scott. Right.

He still couldn't believe what went down this morning. He hadn't come around to apologizing to Scott, but he assumed he didn't even want to hear it yet. He rolled his eyes, pulling the towel tighter around him before swinging open the bathroom door and _oh shit there's a stranger in his room_.

"Jesus Christ!" Stiles jumped back, swearing under his breath. He thought for a minute it was the thing that was playing mind tricks on him, that this was a dream.

He looked down. "Onetwothreefourfive," he whispered, counting his fingers. Nope, this was real. A man was really standing in Stiles' room, as Stiles stood in the doorway in nothing but a towel.

"Can I help you?" Stiles huffed, making sure his towel was covering everything.

The man standing before him looked older than him, with black hair and scruff on his jaw and chin. He was well-built, Stiles wasn't going to just ignore that, but he was still coming down from the initial shock.

The man cleared his throat awkwardly. "Your father sent me up to see if you were ready," he said. His voice was deep and serious. Too serious for someone standing in a stranger's bedroom with said stranger standing before him, nearly naked.

Stiles felt his cheeks heat up. He put on his best intimidating tone. "Do I look ready to you, big guy?" It came out sounding more bitchy than intimidating, but whatever.

The man's eyes suddenly gave a dark expression, one that screamed _you're gonna regret what just came out of your mouth_. Without another word he turned and was heading downstairs.

Stiles let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

What. Just. Happened.

He almost wanted to laugh but was overwhelmed with anger and embarrassment. This was the guest? This lumberjack looking, peeping-tom motherfucker was the guest?

He pulled on whatever clothes he found first, disregarding his father's instruction to dress "suitably". White tee and sweatpants? That'll work.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself before coming slowly down the stairs. His father and the stranger were sat at the dinner table, a couple boxes of pizza in front of them. So his dad took the safe route with dinner.

They seemed to be discussing something in hushed tones before they noticed Stiles enter. "Stiles... you look..." his father sighed, looking down at the sweatpants which Stiles now noticed had a small but noticeable stain near the crotch. Damn.

"What can I say? It's my Sunday best," Stiles smoothed down his shirt and walked towards the table, grabbing a box off the table. "Well I must say, while we may not have met in the most convenient of circumstances, it sure was nice to meet such a... guy," Stiles said flatly. "If you need me I'll be upsta-"

"Stiles," his father warned. "Sit down."

Stiles mumbled a "whatever" under his breath, tossing the box back on the table and taking the seat farthest from the black haired man who now had his gaze fixated on him. Almost as if he were... analyzing Stiles. It made him squirm.

"You wanna introduce me to whoever this is or are we just gonna sit here?" Stiles felt his annoyance rise and his tolerance for shit lower as he reached for a slice of pizza. He took a bite, raising an eyebrow at his dad as he waited.

"Stiles, this is Derek Hale, your bodyguard."

Stiles sucked in a quick breath, making him choke on the bite of pizza. "Bodyguard?" He repeated incredulously. He looked over at Derek, who hadn't spoken a word yet. "Him? _Bodyguard?_ " Stiles could help but laugh now. "This is a joke, you really got me, dad, wow."

But after a moment of his father's unmoving expression and Derek's unbroken stare, he blanched. "You're serious, oh god."

"I'm dead serious, Stiles. I can't stand the thought of you facing something that you can't handle and seeing you get hurt. That just won't fly. Derek here's going to make sure that doesn't happen."

Stiles opened his mouth and closed it a few times, trying to find words but instead looking like a gaping fish.

His father continued. "Derek will be with you at all times possible. At home, at school, at the movie theater, wherever."

"Well isn't that just peachy, I'll never be by myself again," Stiles muttered. He turned to Derek. "Do you have any qualifications whatsoever?"

Derek smirked, his eyes flickering a brilliant blue. "I'm trained, trust me."

"Unbelievable, he's a goddamn werewolf," Stiles groaned. "You hired him because he's a werewolf? Dad, you can't do this to me."

"Do what? Ensure that my son has the utmost protection? Keep you safe? I'm your father, Stiles, I'm doing this because I care."

Stiles pushed his chair back with a loud screech. "Thanks, dad! What're you gonna do next, slash my tires out of love?" He jeered. "Maybe just set my room on fire, since I'm always saying how it's so cold, huh? Oh, I've got a suggestion. Maybe you can pretend, just for _once_ , that you have enough faith in me, enough to know that I can damn well take care of myself!" He storms off, heading up the stairs before spinning around. "Don't follow me. Either of you," he snapped, directing his attention to Derek, whose eyes were still that shining blue.

He made his way up the stairs, mocking his father under his breath and keeping his head low. " _Something you can't handle_... what can't I handle? I'm the fucking handle master, for all he kno-"

He smacked right into a dark wall and bounced backward, landing right on his ass. He groaned, looking up to see that the wall was no other than Bodyguard Derek.

"What did I tell you? Stop following me!" Stiles seethed.

"No can do, because it looks as if my shift starts right about..." Derek looked down at the watch on his wrist. "Now."

"Well, I'll go ahead and relieve you of your duties for tonight. Go on, wolfy. Go home."

As if he hadn't said a word to him, Derek turned away and started slowly towards Stiles' bedroom.

"Oh no, no, no, I don't think so," Stiles said quickly, grabbing at the huge man to try and anchor him down but to no avail, feet dragging on the hardwood.

Stiles ran ahead of him into his room, grabbing the door to slam it shut just as Derek reached out and opened it further, inviting himself in.

"Sure man, mi casa es su casa," Stiles said. Derek stayed silent, glancing around his room, putting Stiles on edge. "In case you couldn't pick up on that with your dog senses, that was sarcasm. You're not welcome here."

"I'll manage," Derek replied. He wandered slowly through the small expanse of Stiles' bedroom, reading each article that was tacked to the wall and attached to red string. After a minute he glanced back at Stiles, who was glaring at him with his arms crossed. "Well?" Derek said expectantly.

"Well, what?" Stiles shot.

"Aren't you going to sleep?"

Stiles gave him a dumbfounded stare. "First of all, it's 7:30, grandma. Secondly, there happens to be a stranger in my room, which makes it the slightest bit difficult to close my eyes and be unconscious for a few hours. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I'm a werewolf, not an invalid," Derek growled.

Stiles was eating up the reaction he was producing from the large man. "Eh, to-may-to, to-mah-to, same shit different toilet, need I go on?"

Derek's eyes shifted from the electric blue to a fiery red. It made Stiles' heart sink in his chest, just a little.

"Fine, fine," Stiles gave up, climbing onto his bed, pushing himself back until he was resting against the headboard. "But sit down. Jeez, you're making me anxious."

Derek took a seat on a nearby beanbag chair, sinking in until his knees were almost to his chin. It was quite a sight. At least he looked less intimidating this way.

"As long as you're here, I might as well get to know you," Stiles acknowledged. "Tell me something about yourself, fluffy."

Derek chose to ignore the dog remark. "I was born here in California, but way up north near the redwoods. I came down here to Beacon Hills after- well, I needed a change, we'll keep it at that." Stiles simply raised a brow, but let him continue.

"I never went to college, the second I graduated high school I was up to my neck in odd jobs just to keep me and my sisters afloat, while also trying to pay for my uncle's ridiculously expensive medical bills that only seemed to go up. It was all before I really had a hang of this wolf situation, so I'd find myself starting to shift in the break room at McDonald's when I had the burden of working on a full moon. My littlest sister, Cora, had issues controlling her abilities as well, which came unnaturally early to her. She struggled with tantrums, which should be normal for any five-year-old, except this one had claws and fangs and would tear apart every surface in her reach. She's grown so much, though. She's got her own bakery down in Chino Hills, and her cannoli is to die for..."

Derek looked up to see Stiles out cold, mouth slightly parted, letting out a tiny snore.

"Nice to know I could bore you to sleep," Derek mumbled.

The boy that was just moments ago yelling at his father in a red-faced rage now looked so... tranquil. Derek felt a weird pressure in his chest and shifted around uncomfortably, blaming it on the stupid beanbag chair.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles found himself in a bright white room, empty and as large as a parking lot. He gazed around the room in silence until his eyes landed on something in the distance.

"Scott?" Stiles spoke out, his voice echoing off the walls.

Scott wasn't looking at him, however. His back was facing him and he was weirdly still. A chill went through Stiles' body.

"Scott, I know you can hear me," he said, feeling a little mad that his friend was blatantly ignoring him. "Dude, where the hell are we?"

"Don't play stupid," Scott finally spoke, turning around with an insidious expression. His fists were clenched, but he made no effort to move toward Stiles.

"I... I don't understand-"

Scott cut him off. "You just don't get it, wow," he laughed bitterly. "You're _weak,_ Stiles."

The words cut through him. "W-what?" He started to walk towards him. "Scott, you don't mean th-"

"I mean every single word. You're defenseless, and it's becoming a burden. Not only on me but your family."

Stiles' breath was caught in his throat. His mind blanked, he really didn't know what to say. Scott took this as a cue to continue. "You know why your mother died, Stiles?"

Stiles began trembling. "Sh-she had-"

"She had you. She had you, and you drained her. Neither she nor your father could keep up with little hyper Stiles, always bouncing off the walls, making messes and managing to injure himself."

"That's n-not true," Stiles whimpered. It wasn't completely true, at least. Yes, he was quite the energetic child, but he couldn't help dementia that had set into his mother's brain, slowly taking her away from him.

"Oh, but it is... and now, your father can't even be bothered to look after you. He's literally hired someone to take care of his son. How sad is that?" Scott's eyes flashed red and Stiles froze.

"You don't know that," Stiles stated. "You don't know any of that, I never told you..."

_A dream._

He looked down at his fingers. _Onetwothr-_

A slicing noise cut through the air and Stiles' head snapped up to see his best friend skewered onto a large blade.

"Scott!" He screamed, running to him but realizing he wasn't covering ground, that Scott was just as far away as he was a couple seconds ago.

His friend crumpled to the ground and the bandaged man was standing behind him, pointed teeth in the form of a grin. "LET ME IN, STILES!" he boomed.

"No, no, no, leave me alone! No!" Stiles yelled, squeezing his eyes shut.

He felt arms around him. He was next.

"No! Please! _No!_ " He thrashed around for a second before opening his eyes.

He was in his room. And Derek was holding him down. His lungs couldn't expand, his throat was constricting-

"Get off! Get away from me!" Stiles flailed his arms, gasping for air.

Derek let go and stood up from the bed, giving Stiles space.

He gripped the blanket in his fists, catching his breath slowly. He looked up at Derek, who was standing a few feet away with a look that mixed both concern and pity.

"Wipe that look off your face. It happens, alright?" Stiles said after a moment. He glanced at the clock. 4:45am.

"Sorry about, uh, holding you." Derek glanced around the room. "I read somewhere that pressure on the body can help eliminate anxiety and overwhelming feelings of outside stimuli. Like... like a weighted blanket." His voice was softer, and Stiles knew it was because he felt bad for him.

"That's nice." Stiles didn't even try to pretend that he cared; his nerves were still very shot. He laid back in bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin, closed his eyes, and turned to face his back to Derek, hoping he would take the hint.

After about fifteen minutes, Derek spoke.

"Can I ask you a question, Stiles?"

"Can you not see I'm sleeping, or...?" He laid there, eyes still shut. 

"Your heartbeat," Derek said. "It hasn't slowed down."

Stiles angrily turned over to face him. "Can you stop with the creepy werewolf shit? Like, right now?"

"Can _I_ ask you a question?" Derek pressed again. "I mean, you made me talk about myself, it's only fair."

Stiles let out a long breath. "One question."

"Why do you count your fingers?"

Stiles stiffened. It had become so habitual that he barely noticed when he did it now, let alone acknowledged that other people may notice. He remembers doing it quickly in the doorway of the bathroom after Derek had scared the shit out of him; he was quiet about it but that fucker's ears probably picked it up with ease.

What should he even tell him? It wasn't like he was trying to give off a good impression for the stupid bodyguard, but he hadn't really told anyone. He assumed it would sound like he was on the verge of insanity. Maybe he was.

Fuck it. 

"I count my fingers to see if I'm dreaming."

There was a prolonged silence. Stiles couldn't really make out the expression Derek was wearing in the dim light of dawn.

"I... I heard that if you count your fingers and there's more than five on either hand that you're in a dream," Stiles said quietly.

"Why'd you do it when you saw me?"

Stiles chose the abrasive route. "I think we agreed on one question, Fido." He knew Derek could hear his heart rate increasing but he didn't comment on it.

He sighed. It would be stupid to try and go back to sleep, he had less than ten minutes before his alarm was supposed to go off. He ran a hand through his mussed hair and got out of bed, heading to his dresser.

"Unless you're looking for a show I suggest you go downstairs," Stiles said flatly, pulling his shirt off and looking for his favorite blue tee. He didn't turn around but he heard footsteps leading out of his room and saw Derek out of the corner of his eye before he shut the bedroom door behind him. 

 _At least it's Friday_ , Stiles thought to himself as he spotted the blue fabric and smiled, pulling the shirt over his head.

When he came down the stairs he saw Derek at the dining room table, drinking coffee from  _his favorite mug._ Stiles made a noise of disapproval. Derek simply raised a brow.

"That's my- you know what, I don't care," Stiles said quickly, grabbing his backpack. He pulled his keys out from his pocket. "I'll see you later... or not, if you decide to quit it's not gonna hurt my feelings. Promise."

He had almost reached the front door, so close to getting away from this freak-

"Stiles."

He whipped around to see Derek holding up his own keys.

"You've gotta be kidding," Stiles whined. He wanted to throw a tantrum, kick over any nearby objects and scream at the top of his lungs. This bodyguard bullshit was getting old really fast.

The two walked out and over to Derek's car, which impressively was a Camaro. Stiles couldn't help but let out a whistle. "This is yours?"

"My pride and joy," Derek said confidently, opening up the driver's side and getting in.

Stiles hopped in as he started the engine, pressing the power button on the radio. Derek smacked his hand away and shut the radio back off.

"What the hell, man?" Stiles crossed his arms.

Derek looked out the back window, reversing out of the driveway. "Driver chooses the music. It's the rules."

"Then fucking choose something," Stiles muttered. He would rather be listening to any music on the planet than striking up a casual conversation with this guy.

"I choose nothing, alright Stiles? Is that fine with you?" Derek raised his voice slightly, making a sharp turn.

Stiles turned his whole body so he was facing the window, arms still crossed. He didn't need this right now. 

As soon as the Camaro pulled into the school parking lot Stiles swung open the door, not even giving Derek a chance to park.

"Sit down. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Stiles sat back down and slammed the door, letting him park before opening it once again. "You're not just going to follow me around school pretending to be a student, right? Because you're not going to convince anyone with that beard shit you've got going on."

Derek chuckled darkly. "Not exactly." He pulled out a pin-on name tag, fastening it to his shirt before turning to show Stiles.

In large blue letters, it said his name, with smaller print underneath it. Stiles leaned in and squinted his eyes.

Mr. Hale...

_Custodian._

Stiles rolled his eyes so hard he was afraid he might injure himself. "This is all one big joke to you, isn't it?"

"Your safety isn't a joke, Stiles. This is my job."

Stiles' chest felt a little weird after the first statement, but he shrugged it off. "Well have fun scraping gum off the underside of the cafeteria tables,  _Mr. Hale._ " He jumped out of the car, making a break for it before Derek could catch up.

He kept running until he was in the hall, until he smacked right into another body. He stumbled back, regaining his balance. "Shit, I'm sor-" He looked up to see Scott standing a few feet from him. "Scott..."

Scott stood there and stared for a moment as if he had something to say. Stiles couldn't read minds, but he was expecting a  _fuck you,_ maybe _I hate you,_ or  _you're a bad friend, Stiles._

Instead he simply walked past him, not saying a word. And somehow that was worse.

He turned around as the bell rang, watching his best friend, likely ex-best friend at this point, walk away. He couldn't help but feel like this was all his fault. Oh right, that's because it was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one feels hella short and I apologize, I just really wanted to get it up.  
> Thank you to everyone who's reading this bs


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look I mention it in my bio but I'm just gonna reiterate for emphasis - I may not tag swearing, but trust me, there's plenty.  
> PS I still know nothing about lacrosse so

Stiles did his best not to fall asleep in class. He was also very aware of the fact that Derek- er,  _Mr. Hale_ , was constantly around him. Literally.

In the bathroom, unclogging a toilet. In the halls, mopping. He had even played maintenance man in Stiles' chemistry class after the teacher short-circuited the room trying to turn on all of the heating plates at once. And during it all, his eyes were locked on Stiles. When he left the room, Stiles overheard a couple of girls a few seats behind him giggling about how cute the new janitor was.

He hated it. He absolutely hated this idea of being looked after, like he was truly defenseless. It filled him with this unfamiliar feeling of unbridled rage.

He tried losing him by skipping his sixth period (again), swinging around to the back of the school, where hopefully he could breathe for a minute. Which, in retrospect, was probably a bad idea.

Because standing there, as if he were waiting for Stiles, was Jackson Whittemore, and he didn't look happy. Before he could react, Stiles was immediately grabbed by the collar of his shirt and pinned to the wall. He squirmed, but it was useless. Jackson had an iron grip.

"Stilinski, we really need to stop meeting like this," he quipped, wearing a look in his eyes that screamed  _I'm not fucking around._

"Now Jackson, you know I don't like getting touchy until  _at least_ the second date," Stiles said, attempting to pull at the arm that was holding him above the ground.

"Shut the fuck up," He raised his voice, picking Stiles up and slamming him into the wall again. _Ow._  "You're going to listen to me because I don't like repeating myself. We clear?"

"Mm, didn't get that last pa-"

Stiles' witty remark was cut off with a swift punch to his jaw. He groaned, letting his head hang down.

"Our game with Devenford is this weekend and I'm not letting you fuck it up. You either learn how to play at practice today, or not only will you be benched, but I will make sure you never set foot on that goddamn field ever again," Jackson spat, his grip tightening. "Do you understand?"

Stiles lifted his head, nodding slowly.

" _Say it!_ "

He stared for a moment at the angered jock before promptly spitting in his face.

"You little shit!" Jackson wound back his arm before sending it into Stiles' stomach at full force. Stiles wheezed, feeling like the wind was knocked out of him.  _Still worth it._

"Let go of him."

The two both turned their head to the source of the sound. Derek walked in from around the corner, still adorned in his dark blue uniform.

"Sure," Jackson bittersweetly smiled, dropping Stiles harshly. As much as he wanted to stand up and kick the shit out of Jackson, he involuntarily curled in on himself, hissing at the pain in his stomach.

Jackson was about to walk away when Derek grabbed his arm, pulling him back over. "You leave him alone, or I'll make sure  _you're_ the one off the team. Got it?"

"Like you have that kind of power," Jackson laughed but was cut short as Derek gripped his arm tighter. "What the fuck man? Let me go!"

"Read my lips," Derek growled. "Off. The. Team."

Jackson paled as the man let him go. He ran off, and Derek could hear him whispering to himself.

"Did the janitor just fucking  _growl_ at me?"

Stiles looked up to see Jackson gone and Derek standing over him with an outstretched hand. He rejected the offer, instead using the wall as support to pull himself up. "That was completely unnecessary," he said, dusting his shirt off. Above the scent of pain, Derek caught anger and embarrassment.

"Just doing my job."

"Well I think it's about time you get laid off, don't you agree?" Stiles felt anger bubbling inside him. "I could have just let him fuck with me and leave, but no! Now he thinks the school janitor is my best buddy and he's never going to let it go!" He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He had to calm down.

"Stiles, I wasn't just going to let him continue to hurt you."

"He already got a few punches in, a few more wouldn't have mattered," Stiles sighed, delicately touching his sore jaw.

"Here," Derek reached out his hand and Stiles flinched away. "Stop it, I'm trying to help."

Stiles rolled his eyes, staying still as Derek touched his face and stomach, a black ink running up the veins in his arms. The way Derek was gripping him sent a shiver down Stiles' spine, but Derek didn't say a word. He soon felt the pain dwindle to nothing. "Thanks." The word was barely audible but he knew Derek heard him.

"Now go get ready for practice, and kick Jackson's ass. I'll pick you up after."

 

-

 

As Stiles threw on his jersey, he could feel Jackson's eyes on him. He glanced across the locker room, confirming his suspicion. Yet he didn't look like he was going to come over to Stiles anytime soon. In fact, he arguably looked a little... scared?

He ignored the swelling feeling of pride in his chest because Whittemore obviously wasn't scared of  _him,_ he was scared of the fucking ripped custodian who threatened his athletic career. He turned back around as he was adjusting his shoulder pads to see Scott digging through the locker next to his. Not that Scott wanted to talk to him, but they had chosen lockers next to each other back in freshman year. When they were still friends.

Stiles took a chance. "So, uh-"

Scott slammed his locker closed, facing Stiles with crossed arms.

He jumped at the sudden noise and swallowed dryly. "I- uh, you wouldn't believe what my dad did," he let out an irritated chuckle. He leaned up against the locker, hoping to come off as casual. "Get this- he hired a goddamn  _bodyguard_ to look after me. A bodyguard, everywhere, twenty-four-seven."

Scott's face stayed stoic. "I know." He turned away and started towards the field doors.

Stiles followed suit, trying to grab him by his jersey. "Wait, what? How-"

"Stiles, it was my idea." Scott wasn't looking at him but he had stopped walking.

The blood drained from Stiles' face. "Your... idea..." His hands began to shake, with anxiety or rage he couldn't tell.

He sighed, turning to face him. "Yeah. After I realized you weren't going to let me help you I knew something had to be done. I found an ad for Derek and showed your dad. This was always in your best interest but as usual, you push away anyone and anything that tries to lend you a hand."

"Because I don't fucking need it, Scott!" Stiles could feel his heart beating a little faster and he knew Scott was listening. "I don't need a bodyguard, I don't need a babysitter. I wanted to be there on the front lines of the action with you and you always waved me away in fear that I might break like glass. Well, guess what?" He stepped closer, pounding on his own chest. "I'm  _not_ weak."

"Whatever, Stiles. Go ahead and hurt yourself, I don't care anymore." 

He watched as Scott jogged ahead with the rest of the team as Stiles stood in the locker room, fuming.

Fuck an apology.

Fuck Scott.

Fuck Jackson.

And most of all, fuck Derek.

 

-

 

"Alright, ladies, it's time to pull your big-girl panties on. We've got the match with Devenford this weekend and I'm sure you know by now that I do not train losers. Do you hear me?"

The team muttered a collective "Yes, Coach" and he grinned.

"Well, that's just great. Whittemore, Lahey, you're on attack. McCall, Stilinski, you're on defense. Dunbar, you're goalie. The rest of you are midfield. Let's go!"

Stiles quietly groaned. Not only did he have to face Jackson, but he had to do it alongside Mr. Traitor McBadFriend. He fastened the chin strap on his helmet and looked up at the bleachers as the team got into formation. Sitting there was Lydia Martin, looking perfect and flawless and  _wow._ Of course, she was here for her brainless jock boyfriend, but that wouldn't stop Stiles from staring out from under his helmet. A few feet away sat Derek, now changed into regular clothes, thankfully.

Stiles glared at him, digging his crosse into the grass. _Let's show this guy how strong I really am._

The whistle blew, and Stiles let his mind and body slip into hyperfocus mode, the way he always used to before all this life-changing bullshit occurred.

The ball was being passed around until it was in Jackson's crosse, and in a second he was charging towards Stiles.

Stiles braced himself and lunged forward and he felt Scott do the same. Jackson went flying back to the ground with a groan.

"That's how you do it!" He heard Coach yell.

He looked over at Scott, who was smiling widely until he met eyes with Stiles. His smile dropped and he walked back to position. They practiced a bit more of attack/defense until Coach ended it, telling them to prepare for shot practice. Liam was still goalie, unfortunately, which meant Stiles had little to no chance of scoring a goal.

He watched as each team member made their shot, which Liam inevitably caught. Coach was losing his mind. 

"Destroy 'em, freshie!"

Stiles rolled his shoulders and out of his slightly blocked peripheral, he could see Derek's eyes boring into him. He ignored it, watching as Scott walked up, cradling his crosse. He scooped up a ball and took a deep breath, taking the shot.

The sound of the ball dinging against the goal's frame echoed throughout the field. A couple laughs scattered about. Stiles stayed silent, but internally was laughing his ass off because  _fuck Scott._

Stiles was up next, scooping up the ball and preparing himself for embarrassment just as bad as Scott's, if not worse. He closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out everything. Blocking out Scott, Jackson, Coach, and Wolfy. He suddenly felt a surge of power course through him as he took the shot.

And before his very eyes, he watched the ball fly right past Liam and into the goal.

A dead silence covered the field. Stiles looked over to see Coach, mouth agape, clipboard dropped and forgotten on the ground. 

A voice from the back of the line piped up. "Did Stilinski just..."

More silence.

Coach broke it off, screaming, "Take a lap, all of you! Except for you, Stilinski, get your ass over here!" As the team jogged away with a united look of confusion on their faces, Stiles walked up to Coach.

"Coach, I-"

"I have no idea what just happened back there, but I better see that same thing tomorrow when you're on front line. Got that, Stilinski?"

"F-Front line?" Stiles couldn't contain his excitement. Should he hug Coach? No, bad idea. Handshake? He stuck out his hand, as to which Coach simply stared at as if it were an alien. Stiles recoiled his hand quickly, running it through his hair. "Thank you, Coach, you won't regret it!"

 

-

 

Stiles stepped out of the locker room and towards the front of the school with a new air of confidence around him. He faltered as soon as he saw Lydia standing outside.

"Hey, Stiles!"

What?  _What?_ She was staring right at him, smiling widely. How did she even know his name? She started walking towards him and he panicked.

"Uh, Jackson's probably still in the locker room, if you want me to get him." He cringed at himself, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

"I'm not looking for Jackson, silly. I wanted to talk to you."

"M-Me?"

Lydia laughed, and Stiles swore to God it should be illegal to be as perfect as she was. "I just wanted to say you did amazing at practice today. I overheard Coach saying something about front line?"

Stiles grinned proudly. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on front line," he repeated dumbly.

"Well good luck," She smiled warmly. "You probably don't need it seeing how you did today, but a little extra luck didn't hurt anyone, right?"

"Right!" Stiles agreed a little too enthusiastically. He mentally slapped himself. If he wasn't careful, he was going to give Jackson a pretty good reason to skin him alive. He coughed awkwardly. "Well, uh, my ride's here, so-"

Lydia turned around to see Derek waiting patiently in the Camaro. She squinted her eyes. "Isn't that the janitor?"

Stiles paled. "Ah, uh- he's my... cousin?" 

Lydia raised a brow before laughing. "Always full of surprises, Stilinski. See you at the game." 

"Right, game, yup!" Stiles mumbled before speed-walking to the car. He slammed the door shut, causing Derek to wince.

"Could you be a little more careful with my baby?"

"Sorry," Stiles apologized before he could come up with some smart-ass remark. He sighed. "I'm just..."

"Is it the girl?"

Stiles' eyes widened. "What?"

"The redhead. What's her name?"

"Doesn't matter," Stiles dodged the question, facing away from the driver's seat and staring out the window as buildings and trees passed by.

After a moment of silence, Derek's voice filled the car again. "So, uh... I don't understand lacrosse, never seen let alone played a game, but... you seemed to do really good out there." He stared straight out to the road, refusing to look at Stiles.

Stiles sat up quickly. "Did... Did Derek Hale just  _compliment me?_ _"_

He huffed, looking the slightest bit flustered. "Simply acknowledging your... athletic skills." He still wore the usual frown on his face.

Stiles was ready to reply with something instigative, but the unforgettable smell of death floated under his nose. He groaned, feeling a wave of nausea pass through him.

"What's wrong, Stiles?"

"You don't smell that?" Stiles attempted pinching his nose and breathing through his mouth but then he could taste it. He gagged.

"I smell the scent of you getting sick. What's going on?"

Stiles looked up at the rearview mirror to see the bandaged man in the backseat. He made a scared and nauseous noise, puking on the car floor.

Derek swore a few times before pulling over and rushing to the passenger side. He flung open the door and picked a few napkins out of the glove compartment, attempting to clean Stiles' face and shirt.

"Oh god, your car, I'm so sor-" He was cut off by another gag.

"Don't worry about it, just focus on not throwing up again." 

Stiles weakly held up his hand.  _One, two, three, four, five._

"This isn't a dream, Stiles. You're awake."

Stiles looked behind himself to an empty backseat as the smell started to fade. He sighed. "That's the problem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am determined to finish this fic. It'll be the first chaptered fic I actually completed lmao  
> I've got like five drafts that I'm dying to post but if I do I know I'll end up abandoning this and I really really like this idea.  
> So yeah  
> *fingerguns*


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll be honest, i had no idea how this was going to end when i started writing this. not that i know now but uh  
> thanks if you're still reading this crap ily.  
> ***Hey if vulgar/sexual shit makes you uncomfortable I'd suggest not reading this chapter. thx

After twenty minutes of attempting to scrub the smell of his own sick off his body, Stiles got out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. 

"Derek?" He called from behind the bathroom door. He knew he was on the other side, probably awkwardly sinking into the bean bag chair again.

"Yeah, you alright?"

Stiles felt funny whenever Derek spoke to him in a voice that sounded... caring. He shook it off. "I'm fine. Can you, uh, you know..." He was hoping Derek would take the hint, tugging the towel around himself tighter.

"Sure, sure, I'm out."

He heard his footsteps across his floor and the sound of his bedroom door shutting. Stiles sighed, leaning against the bathroom door for a moment. Maybe it was because he had thrown up in the past hour, or maybe it was from practice, but he just felt too tired to come up with anything that would piss Derek off. 

He waited another second before opening the door.

"Stiles."

Near his bedroom door was the bandaged man. Immediately Stiles covered his mouth and nose with one hand, the other on his towel. But for some reason, the smell didn't come this time. He slowly removed his hand before taking a deep breath. He decided the solution was to scream at the top of his lungs.

_"Derek!"_

The monster laughed. "Scream all you want, your big bad bodyguard can't hear you."

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Stiles shuddered, stepping back into the bathroom. 

"I'm simply here for a... a proposal." It stepped forward, sending Stiles back another step. "You mustn't be afraid of me Stiles. I'm only here to help you."

Stiles swallowed down the bile that started to rise. "Help me? I-I don't think so."

"Oh but Stiles, I've already helped you tremendously. I recall you've been promoted in your little game."

"Game?" Stiles was confused for a moment. "Wait, lacrosse?" He felt stupid even discussing something as trivial as sports with this demonic spawn.

The thing smiled, showing it's dagger-like teeth. "That rush of power you felt on the field, your accuracy, your strength... you can thank me for that."

"Th-that was you?" Stiles could hear his own voice tremble and he hated it.

"You couldn't really believe any of that was _you,_ could you? Not weak little human Stiles, no. You see, you  _need_ me." It stepped closer again and Stiles pulled back until his back was touching the shower door. "Without me, you're useless. But with me, you can have such power. Never again will you have your friends and family constantly worrying about you, watching your every move with a first-aid kit in their arms. You could  _be_ something more."

Stiles didn't speak at first. He couldn't believe it, but his initial thought wasn't 'no'. 

Any confidence he had in lacrosse was now gone, as he apparently couldn't even give himself credit for that. He felt weaker than ever before these past few weeks, and he knew everyone was waiting for him to crumble. This thing was evil, and it knew just how to get into Stiles' brain. He fought it, following what should have been his first instinct.

"Fuck you." Stiles stepped forward, depending on courage that wasn't really there. "I'm fine the way I am. I am  _not_ weak."

"You can keep lying to yourself, Stiles, or you can do something about it." Suddenly the thing was very close, it's long fingers beginning to wrap around Stiles' throat. "All you have to do is let me in." 

He could feel the grip tightening, and after a moment the corners of his vision began to get fuzzy. 

"Yes, Stiles, relax. Very good."

 

-

 

"Stiles?" Derek knocked on the bedroom door once again. "You alright in there?" It had been quiet for quite some time now. He sighed, turning the doorknob and letting himself in. Stiles could be angry about it later, but his safety was still first priority.

The room was dark, but Derek could make out Stiles' outline in the bed. He was fast asleep.

He quietly made his way over to the bean bag chair, sinking in and letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment. But soon enough daylight began to creep into the bedroom, waking Derek to find Stiles sitting straight up in bed, staring at the wall.

He cleared his throat. "Uh, Stiles?"

The boy immediately snapped from his reverie and looked over at Derek with a small smile. "Hey."

"Everything okay?" He couldn't help but feel a little concerned at the lack of bitterness in Stiles' voice.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Stiles said, getting out of bed and walking towards his dresser. "It's game day."

Derek nodded. There was a pause between them as Stiles rifled through his drawers. Before he could help it, the words came tumbling out.

"So, uh, I was thinking. Your game is later today, right?" He swallowed dryly, tugging at a loose string in his shirt. "Maybe we could grab something to eat before, you know, like an early celebration..."

"Sounds good."

Derek's brows raised as Stiles shut the dresser, turning to face him. He waited a moment for a  _sike!_ or something equally as shitty to come out of his mouth. But Stiles simply stood there, twirling the shirt in his hand with an unreadable expression on his face. His heartbeat hadn't faltered for a second.

"Yeah, okay, good-" He stammered, getting up from the chair. "I'll let you get ready then. I'll be downstairs." And in an instant he was out in the hallway, making his way down the stairs as he silently prayed that Stiles hadn't noticed the stupid pink tint in his cheeks. It wasn't that he had... feelings or anything of that wild notion, he just...

Alright, so maybe he had the slightest, most tiny-minuscule-microscopic shred of feelings for this talkative little brat. He convinced himself that it was all a part of the job, a simple connection between employee and customer, as he walked into the kitchen, grabbing a mug and filling it with coffee.

He sat at the dining table, drumming his fingers on the surface and taking small sips every now and then. He grimaced at the taste but kept drinking anyway.  _It's healthy to feel this way. You're an Alpha, of course you're going to feel protective over this helpless little human_ _,_ he thought to himself. He could hear shuffling around upstairs. Would it be too nice of him to pour Stiles a coffee? It seemed as if game day had changed his mood, though, so maybe he'd just accept it?

He stopped overthinking it and walked back to the cupboard, grabbing another mug.

"I like mine with a lot of cream, just so you know."

Derek spun around, mug in hand, and nearly dropped it.  _Whoa._

Stiles was standing on the last stair, staring at Derek with a half-smile. He was wearing a thin shirt that hugged his waist and revealed the slightest hint of abs. His hair was gelled up messily, giving the aura of  _I barely tried and I still look this good._ There was something slightly different about his overall scent as well. It was sweeter, and Derek reveled in it. He didn't notice he was staring right back until Stiles spoke up.

"Your eyes are glowing, Derek."

Derek looked away and blinked a few times, begging his wolf not to emerge right now. He needed to chill. He turned back without a word, pouring a small bit of coffee into a large amount of cream. When he turned back, Stiles was already seated at the dining table. He was wearing this stupid smug look that hinted that he knew a little too much.

He set the mug on the table, sitting across from him. After a long moment of silence, Stiles stood up from his seat. "These chairs are uncomfortable. You wanna...?" He jabbed his finger in the direction of the couch.

"Uh, sure," Derek said in what was hopefully a casual tone. He finished the last of his coffee awhile ago but nervously fiddled with the mug.

They plopped onto opposite sides of the couch. Once again, a long silence followed. Stiles broke it.

"You want me," Stiles stated nonchalantly, leaning forward to put his mug on the small coffee table.

Derek's eyes widened. "What?"

"I know you're not that dumb, Derek." He moved himself a little closer on the couch. "I can hear it in your voice, I can see it in your eyes. You wanna fuck me bad, huh?" 

 _This took a sharp turn._ His heart started beating wildly.  _What the hell was going on?_ Stiles' scent was all he could smell now. He squirmed. "Stiles, that's- that's a little-"

"A little what, inappropriate? I'm eighteen, who cares? And by the looks of it, I'm making you hard just by talking to you."

Derek swallowed nervously. No one had ever,  _ever_ been able to make him feel like this, flustered and turned on like a teenage girl. "So what?" was all he could muster out. He set the mug down on the ground next to the couch in fear of dropping it.

Stiles laughed and it made Derek's face burn. "So, what's gonna happen is..." He got even closer, pushing Derek so that his back was up against the armrest. "We're going to take advantage of my dad being on patrol today. We're going to forget about the restaurant. And you... you're just going to sit back and let me do my thing, alright?"

 _His thing?_ Derek had no further time to question it because Stiles' lips were on his, making his eyes flutter shut. It started slow and almost innocent-feeling, Stiles drawing up his knees so that he was straddling Derek. But in seconds it became hot and intense, and Stiles' hands were holding his face as Derek grabbed his waist. He could feel the younger one grinding down on him, letting him know he was just as worked up as Derek was. He let out a quiet moan that Stiles muffled with his own mouth. 

Derek could smell the thick scent of arousal in the air and he was trying his best to stay composed but his wolf was losing its mind.  _Claim. Mark. Mate. Knot. Now._ He bucked up his hips involuntarily and Stiles pressed their chests together so he was flush against Derek. His hands left his face, but one hand was now busy finding it's way under Derek's shirt. Derek was uncomfortably hard now and he needed to do something about it, he needed to-

Stiles pulled away, his breath in small gasps. He then smirked, raising his other arm, revealing the mug in his hand. "So sorry about this, Wolfy."

"Wha-"

Derek was cut off by the sound of ceramic cracking against his head, and everything went black.


End file.
